


Through His Eyes

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, High School, Id Fic, Insecurity, Medical, Teen Angst, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: Inspired by the final Tales from the Shadows short story, this piece takes a series of brief glimpses into Varis's early life.





	Through His Eyes

Varis yae Galvus loves his family. He loves his mother very much, especially the way she picks him up in her big, strong arms and shows him off to the world. He always puts on a serious face until the thrill takes him and endless giggles bubble from his smiling lips. He loves the way she cherishes him, promising that one day he will inherit the world in the name of House Galvus, and all will be right once more. He doesn’t think too much on what’s _not_ right – because when he does, he remembers his father, who he also loves even though he’s not there any more. Nobody will tell him anything more than _he’s gone_, and so Varis is left to wonder for years and years. But it’s okay, because his mother is always there for him, and various other people, too. The servants are ever so kind, along with what few relatives spare the time to make nice with him. His uncle Titus is a little strange, always spouting the most nonsensical ideas about things Varis doesn’t understand like _foreign policy _and _immigration_. He can’t even _spell_ that one, yet, but he’ll learn.

_“Let him be a child a little longer,” _his mother once said, wholly unaware of his presence behind the door. _“Please. He needs to-”_

_“What that boy **needs** is a solid education in the ways of my Empire – I will **not** have him raised with whatever foolish notions of peace and love you’ve been feeding him. Utterly preposterous. He must be prepared – why, it is base cruelty to leave him ignorant as he is.”_ Solus, his grandfather, sounded awfully upset. Varis didn’t know why he said the things he said, or looked the way he did all dark and glare-y down the bridge of his nose, but it certainly seemed difficult to be the Emperor all the time. Not fun at all, but a necessary duty he would come to understand in the following years. At five? It seemed more a chore to young Varis than anything else.

~

“Well, look at you!” The Medicus spreads his arms out wide, jovial and welcoming as always. “I daresay you’ve had your first growth spurt!”

“My back hurts.” Varis mutters, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Can you do something about it?”

“Varis!” his mother chides none too gently, sharp creases tightening around the corners of her clear blue eyes. The boy cringes, all of ten years and no tact to show for any of them, forgetting his etiquette lessons in a genuine plea for help.

“Apologies.” Varis delivers it rote as he’s been taught, head down, voice even. The Medicus clicks his tongue and shakes his head, beckoning Varis to sit down.

“Worry not, dear lad! It’s all a part of growing up.” He motions for Varis to undress, going through the usual checklist for bodily health. Ever since the boy’s father perished due to a completely random, unknown illness, Solus had it mandated that all his descendants undergo bi-annual checkups. “Though I must say, I didn’t expect it to hit so soon! You’ll be reaching the ceiling before long!” He laughs, Varis’s mother laughs. Varis stares at the floor and is silent.

~

Varis is twelve and attending the Military Academy just like every other physically inclined son of Garlemald, having received the finest education one could ask for at home in the Palace. But nothing his private tutors taught him could ever have prepared him for this – this mingling with savages and purebloods alike, supposedly meant to foster a sense of ‘equality’. Families noble and mixed both send their children here to study the ways of war, and it is here that Varis stands amongst a hundred others being addressed by a man on a stage. His ceremonial uniform glitters with innumerable accolades, his rich, warm voice carrying throughout the hall.

“Welcome, future soldiers of Garlemald, to the Military Academy!” He spreads his arms out wide, before folding them neatly behind his back and standing at the marble podium with a little microphone pointed up. “You are all here today to take the first step forwards into a life of greatness in service to the Empire. The world is yours for the taking, and here, we will teach you how to do it. Nos sumus manus, nos sumus deus.”

_We are the Hand, we are the God._

He continues, for his duty is to speak before any independent thoughts can arise outside his sphere of influence. “United we prevail, and so you will all study in groups of twenty. Five classes this year, each sorted in accordance to your abilities. You are about to take the entrance exam, and this will measure your worth to see what use the Empire can make of you.”

Varis blinks, wondering why he’s stating the obvious. Most of the other children seem to be hanging onto his every word, though, and Varis can’t for the life of him fathom why. He could orate a far better speech in his sleep.

The man on the stage gestures to one side and is pleased to see everyone’s eyes following him.

“Form five lines right this way and we’ll have everything running ceruleum-smooth.”

“What’s a seroolyum?” someone whispers beside Varis, a scruffy little creature with ears and a tail. Varis shifts away with haste to join the others moving towards the lines, already forming in front of the five tables set up. He’s good at waiting, being still and silent and obeying orders. So too is he observant, noting how those at the front of the line are directed either left or right to either sides of the hall where ten or so adults stand to attention. When it comes his time to take the test – whatever it is that they’re doing at the table – the woman there looks up and flashes a brief smile.

“Your name?”

“Varis yae Galvus.” Varis deadpans, face as flat as can be. The woman lifts a brow, and chuckles softly.

“Sure, and I’m Midas nan Garlond. What’s your _real_ name?”

Varis, like always, came prepared for this. His mother _told_ him this would happen, and that he’d be much better served learning the art of war from private instructors, but he _insisted_ he wanted to get out and see the world. To learn more about the nation he lived in, the city whose snows he couldn’t even set foot on without a guard watching him do it. He pulls out an identification card emblazoned with all sorts of gilding around the edges, and watches the woman’s face turn sheet-white. She bows her head at once, and offers him a pen with all due haste.

“My… apologies, Lord Galvus. Er, due to protocol, I need you to write your name down here…”

Varis turns his nose up with clear distaste, already having had enough of this whole farce. He takes the pen, glances down and spies a lined sheet of paper with various scribbles on it, plus a few other legible names.

_‘Oh, for the love of…’_

He scribes his name down quickly in a perfect, practised hand, using his left completely unaware of the stares pointed in his direction. Once done, he drops the pen and looks expectantly at the woman sitting before him.

“V-very good, ah, that way.” A gesture off to the right and Varis approaches the designated area with quite a few other purebloods standing around. Without much consideration for the other children, he looks for an adult and finds one with an ocular over his third eye, silver-rimmed glasses perched upon an aquiline nose. He peers down at Varis questioningly.

“What now?”

“You wait with the others for further instruction.” He says, directing Varis to mingle with the rest of the children. Varis takes one look at the other purebloods and sighs. A few of them are staring at him.

“Must I?”

“First lesson, kid, never question your commanding officer.” The man gives Varis a light shove, startling the boy with his sheer _nerve._

“Second lesson, _plebeian_, never lay hands on me again.” Varis snarls, and waves the identification card he’s still holding between tense fingers. More people are staring. Varis is too angered to care.

-

_‘United we Prevail, my ass.’_ Varis stands at the end of twenty lined-up students, one week after the sorting. They’ve each been run ragged over the course of an hour, undergoing various physical fitness tests and ranked in terms of endurance. The line skews heavily pureblooded, the larger, more hearty Garleans outpacing their mixed comrades in every single aspect. And beneath the mixed are the foreigners, the ‘savages’ the purebloods make fun of when there aren’t any teachers around to tell them off. Down by the savage end of the line are the scrawny few who look more suited to actual academia than any sort of physical work. With any luck, they’ll be sorted into next year’s administrative classes, or whatever place the Militum has for people like them. Varis withholds his sneer at the thought. What foreigner could ever remain loyal to Garlemald and her people, after the conquering and the conscription and the _history_? Varis has not forgotten, and he will not let _any_ puffed-up catboy forget what the trueborn Garleans had to go through. The mockery, the ostracism, the _cold_.

“And… that’s about it for today!” Their teacher, some oen or another, clicks his fingers to grab everyone’s attention. It’s piercing enough to jerk Varis’s head in his direction at once, if only just to glare at him. The oen glares right back, before grinning brightly. “Fantastic results, Galvus.”

The praise goes in one ear and out the other as Varis fixates upon the lack of proper title. _Why_ does everyone in this place insist on calling him by his last name without the appropriate title? Is it meant to make him feel at home with the other nobodies, and push him to work hard for his first official military rank? Indeed, no-one here has rank unless granted one by yearly graduation, and Varis _despises_ it. He can clearly tell an _aan_ from a _bas_ and here everyone is pretending they’re one and the same.

“Whatever they’ve been feeding you at the Imperial Palace sure is doing its job.” The oen laughs, giving Varis a pat on the shoulder. “Alright you lot, go and change.” As the students disperse, Varis makes his way to the changing rooms without heed for the few boys following him, a fair few mixed with a couple savage hangers-on.

“Galvus,” one of them spits, and Varis turns halfway to peer down at the group. “Overgrown bastard, you’re makin’ the rest of us look bad.”

Varis squints. What fault of it is his that these mangy halfbreeds cannot match his pureblooded brilliance, his royal genes, his toughened body? He says nothing, simply glaring at his would-be assailants. It’s a cold day out in the yard, and the smaller savages are shivering. Varis gazes upon them with clear derision, irking the bold Miqo’te mix staring at him with raw hate in his slitted eyes.

“You think you’re better than all of us, don’t you? That’s the problem with you three-eyed fucks, you reckon the whole damn world’s gonna kneel at your bidding.”

“As they should.” says Varis, lip curling in the traditional Galvus sneer. “As should _you_.”

“Look around you, asshole. No-one’s gonna come save you once we-”

“Once you what? Assault a Prince of the blood? Yes, I’m sure you’d enjoy watching your whole family lined up and shot for the crime. Tch.” Varis leans down, molten gold gaze twice as fierce as his grandfather’s, heated by the passion of youth. “You have no power here.”

It’s then that the mixed lad punts him right in the third eye with the heel of his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> i have to sleep but i'll try put more of this tomorrow


End file.
